


Based on a true story

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Where Eagles Dare (1968)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-20
Updated: 2008-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-25 01:52:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1625264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Old spies write the best thrillers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Based on a true story

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Sealgirl

 

 

Christmas, 1967

The café table outside the inn gave a beautiful view of the castle, in all its fairy-tale splendour. Its ancient stones endured, blackened in patches, reflecting the bright winter the sun brilliantly in others; the steel cable cars on their twinned journeys up and down the mountain shone almost painfully, catching and intensifying the reflected light of the snow, as well as the sun. As his drink arrived, Maclean brought his attention back down to the scurrying busyness of the earth. Here, the fairy tale beauty and precise-as-a-pin neatness of the place had been disrupted by an invasion of American and British film-makers. Across the square, the snow was being swept out of its tidy heaps, and pushed back into untidy banks; when he turned his head in the other direction, Alistair saw a lorry towing a burnt out army jeep coming up the road. When he turned back to the castle his view was blocked by a tall American. 

"Take a seat," he said, gesturing appropriately, and making sure his voice held none of the surprise he felt. "The coffee here is excellent, particularly, when you let them put the brandy in it.".

"So good you've left out the coffee, eh?" said Schaeffer, seat himself and crossing his long legs. His hair was longer, and had grey in it.

"Effective against the cold," Maclean replied, raising his glass and toasting him silently, before drinking.

The silence lasted a while; Schaeffer too seemed to find the view of the castle, and the points of light representing the cable cars, hypnotic.

"I thought it would have burnt down," he said eventually. "For stone, it sure burnt good."

"It did," said Maclean. "In part, anyhow. They rebuilt it stone by stone. You can tell by looking for the lighter coloured stone. If you think that's impressive, you misunderstand the Germanic character. And you should see Nuremburg."

Schaeffer let out a huff of laughter. "I've seen way too much of Nuremburg since '45, thanks." And after pause he continued, "so, hey, I liked the script, though cost me some to get hold of a copy. Gonna be one hell of a war movie, I'd say." And when Maclean continued to regard him silently he went on, "and I gotta say I'm pretty damn impressed by the casting. Or at least Trudi tells me I should be. She loves Westerns. Too many horses if you ask me." A bus full of production crew drew up across the square and started disgorging its army of filmmakers. It was bright yellow and had a snow plough on the front. "But Richard Burton as Major John Smith, eh?" 

"I didn't expect you to object to the parts where I changed the names, ranks and serial numbers," said Maclean, making sure his voice stayed relaxed and sardonic. "I rather thought you might be here to complain that I didn't change yours."

"If we'd had a problem with that, you'd have heard from the Agency before now, Maclean. No, I'm here because I love Hollywood, like all good Americans. Which is to say, because Trudi wants Clint Eastwood's autograph. And who knows. I might see old friends, and talk about old times."

"Old times?" asked Maclean, this time allowing some of the surprise into his voice. "What is there to say about old times? We lived through them, then. They make a good war story now for the people who didn't have to. Burton tells me it's the best he's ever read, in fact. What is there to say?"

He was interested to observe that the question seemed to discomfort Schaeffer, who, after a moment's confusion, turned to watch the celebrities across the square. Eventually, still staring intently at Ingrid Pitt and her makeup crew, he sighed, and said, "You told a great war story even when we were there, Maclean. I never met a man who could spin a tale like you, and believe me, since the war I've met a few who tried." 

He was silent again for a few moments.

"How can you do it? Take the truth and twist it just so? Convince everyone that black is white one moment, and red is white the next?"

"Are you worried that I might be colourblind now, Schaeffer? Is that why I merit this little visit?" Maclean laughed, and took a drink, perhaps a little quickly, so he gestured expansively with the glass to normalise the movement. "I can assure you that I know exactly which colour is red, and exactly what it stands for."

"Hell no! This isn't about politics, Maclean. I'm here on my own time. I just wanted to know. How you could do that." Schaeffer sighed. "In the castle, in that big old room, where you turned on me. I really thought you'd sold us out. For about five minutes. And then I thought maybe you hadn't. And that turned out to be right." He seemed to be searching for words. "I believed you were a Nazi even though I didn't want to, Maclean. That was the worst five minutes of my life."

Across the square, a man with a clipboard gestured, and Ingrid Pitt crossed to him, her entourage trailing after her like ducklings behind their mother. A trio of motorcycles with side cars zoomed through the square, and for a minute or so their noise made it impossible to hear anything else. 

"For the silent killer type, you sure talk good," said Maclean, imitating Schaeffer's mid-Western cadence. 

"Yeah. Station head's a job that's got more talking in it. I've been practising. So what about you? How did you do it? Tell us one story, then the next, and everyone believes them, and none of them are real? What does it do to you, when all you've got are stories against guns, when you make them believe you and then tell them you were lying? It churned me up inside so bad I still wake at night thinking of it. It's been twenty years, Maclean, and those five minutes turned out to be the most important in my life. So I want to know what they meant for you."

Maclean took a sip again, and considered, and then, as he usually did whenever he forced himself to think about how he did this, and how he'd done it then, he took a bigger mouthful, finished the brandy, and called to the waiter for another. He leaned forward to stare intent at Schaeffer; eye contact was important in moments like these. It communicated that you were sharing information of vital emotional import and provided the illusion of intimacy; it ensured that you had your subject's full attention; it enabled you to observe and gauge the minutiae of their reaction. And the easiest way to be convincing was to tell the truth. As much as would get the job done.

"They didn't mean anything," he said. "I was just doing the job. The plan was to do whatever was necessary to get the names and save the actor, so I did. The words just came to me. Words have always come to me, and people have always liked them. They still do." The new glass of brandy arrived, and he took a big gulp, giving the natural movement full rein to the point of exaggeration; it would underline the point nicely for a puritan like Schaeffer. "I didn't feel anything in that room, Schaeffer, except cold and tired and that much closer to getting home again. I still don't feel anything about it."

Schaeffer had a series of professional faces too, Maclean reflected; the role of affable American diplomat called for a repertoire he'd never had occasion to use during the war. But the expression Schaeffer was wearing now was one that Maclean recognised from the old days: closed, neutral, non-reactive. He felt the urge to displace it, to get something less controlled in its place. Calculating the risks, he realised there was no reason not to. It made him feel a little savage. 

"It didn't mean anything to me, Schaeffer. You should know: you've read the script. I just wrote a whole film about how little I feel. They tell me it's going to be a hit, and I think it will, because that's what people want. Action without emotion. A cipher where the feelings should be. The war all over again, with all the suspense but none of the fear, all of the excitement and none of the grief. And I'm the man who can give it to them, because that's how it was for me."

Schaeffer's mask cracked, then, but not the way Maclean had expected. Shaeffer gave a smile that Maclean had never seen before. Perhaps it was the genuine one he brought out for his mother and his children, it had that sort of mawkish softness about it; perhaps it was just the right one to use. 

"I think you're a great storyteller, Maclean," he said. "When you're done here, you should come visit in Berlin. Trudi'd love to see you again, and show off the kids. They're great kids. They love war stories. Come and spend some time." He pushed back his chair and stood up and looked around, and his expression was professionally affable again, and he was every inch the wealthy middle-aged American enjoying the naïve charm of an Alpine village. "I gotta go," he said. "Gotta go charm that autograph out of Eastwood's secretary for the wife." And he strode off across the square in the direction of the production office.

He looked back and gave a friendly wave as he left, though. Maclean made a more brusque version of gesture at the waiter, because his glass needed refilling.

****

The world is grown so bad, that wrens make prey where eagles dare not perch.

William Shakespeare , _Richard III_

 


End file.
